Page 6 of Tainted Souls
A total of 35,000 credits. Not bad for a night’s work, but not what it should be either. There were times we would’ve easily bagged twelve or fifteen in the same hunting grounds.
They’ve been more careful lately. Less audacious.
“Sign here,” the clerk says, sliding a digital pad toward us. We both press our thumbs to the screen, completing the transaction.
As we walk back to our vehicle, now empty of its deadly cargo, Faye voices what I’ve been thinking.
“It’s been so quiet lately,” she says, frowning. “Last three runs have been below average. I only caught one today.One.I should’ve at least gotten triple that. Something’s off.”
I nod, scanning the city skyline. “Someone may be warning them.”
“Or,” Faye smirks, nudging me, “you’ve been scaring them off our borders. They probably tell each other scary stories about you. Seraph Rosen, the dhampir who drinks her blood red and her coffeeblack.”
“Much better than that powdered protein sludge you keep calling a meal.”
Faye laughs, giving me another nudge, harder this time.
“Thatsludge,” she says, “has fifty grams of protein in it and allows me to keep up with your ferocious ass.”
I snort, but there’s no real humor in it. “If only it were that simple.”
The truth is more concerning. Wild vampires may be more animal than human, but they are intelligent nonetheless. My father used to say that in hunting, what you don’t see is more dangerous than what you do. If they’ve gone quiet, it means something bad is coming. I know it, Faye knows it.
And everyone at Redmoore knows it, too.
The heart of Penn City, also known as the entertainment district, is bustling with energy as usual. Neon bleeds across puddled cobblestone as I pull my fur coat tighter around my shoulders, more out of habit than necessity. The cold doesn’tbother me like it does humans, but I suppose it’s learned behavior.
Keepers seem to have increased their patrols on the main streets, red armbands stark against black uniforms. Trouble, then. Either a brawl or a body.
I slip away before they notice me, ducking into a side alley where the lights don’t reach. The air back here tastes of rust and rot. My boots are silent on the slick pavement as I duck under a low-hanging fire escape, then leap over a stack of crates that block the narrow passageway.
The alley opens up to reveal Hot Shot, a classic bar nestled between a pawnshop and an outdated arcade. Its weathered brick exterior and opaque windows make it nearly invisible to casual passersby, though perfect for those who prefer their drinking establishments off the grid.
The bouncer gives me a curt nod as I approach, stepping aside. He knows me, or at least knows enough not to ask questions. I slip inside, my eyes adjusting instantly to the dim lighting.
Music thrums from speakers mounted in the corners, loud enough to ensure private conversations stay private. Worn leather booths are tucked into shadowy corners, while a polished mahogany bar that has survived decades of elbows and spilled drinks dominates the center of the space. It has a perfect blend of vintage charm and underground grit, making it my favorite place to sit. Shelves of tall and stout and bulbous liquor bottles hang overhead, gleaming like jewels—whiskeys in rich ambers, vodkas clear as tears, and scattered among them, discreet black bottles with no labels. Those are for patrons like me.
I slide onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where I can keep my eyes on both the entrance and the back door. Force of habit.
The bartender, Lou, a burly man with tattoos crawling up his neck, walks up to me without being summoned.
“Seraph,” he acknowledges, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his waistband. “The usual?”
I nod and scan the room once more. No sign of him yet.
Lou pours two fingers of crimson liquid from an unmarked bottle into my glass, his hand steady from years of practice.
Bliskey—human blood cut with top-shelf bourbon—is legal in Penn City, but only in premises with special licenses like this one.
I take an indulgent sip, savoring the metallic tang followed by the burning caress of alcohol. The taste lingers on my tongue as my phone pings with an apologetic text from Max.
The screen rises in a shimmering 3D hologram, invisible except to anyone perfectly aligned with its beam, words floating in midair:
Running late, sorry. Meeting with Henderson went long.
I huff, twirling my glass between my fingers. Fashionably late is kind of his thing lately. With one thumb, I tap out a response, keeping my other hand on the glass.
Take your time. Lou’s keeping me company.
